


let me drink from your well

by thundersquall



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 21:49:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12591268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundersquall/pseuds/thundersquall
Summary: He’s avampire, and no matter how captivated Patrick is by him, the fact remains that Patrick’s still a fragile, breakable human, with thin skin and delicate bones and a perfect tracery of beautiful blue-purple veins across his wrists and the pulse of his neck and -Shit, shit, he really needs to stop this train of thought.





	let me drink from your well

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MajaLi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajaLi/gifts).



> originally posted [here](http://kanerboo.tumblr.com/post/166966475623/let-me-drink-from-your-well). 
> 
> thanks a million to the fest organisers!

Jonny’s head is spinning as he stumbles down the tunnel after the horn goes. He doesn’t follow the guys into the locker room, but turns into an empty room nearby, a training room where he knows there are benches to sit on and a fridge. The trainers keep the fridges all over the UC well-stocked with his needs, and he  _needs_ a drink now if he’s going to get through overtime.

There are black spots dancing in his vision by the time he makes it into the room, nearly tripping over his skates as he goes. It’s getting worse by the second: the vertigo, the nausea, the desperate thirst, and for a moment Jonny thinks he might actually pass out right here, at the door, the fridge just on the other wall and out of reach.

He knows he should have taken more blood before the game started, but he - he’d thought it would be enough. Hadn’t counted on the approximately six million penalty kills and power plays he’d have to be on, with the penalties flying left and right all game. Hadn’t counted on the fucking Ducks being this hard. Hadn’t thought the game would go into OT.

And now he has less than four minutes to go before OT starts, in the Western Conference finals, and he’ll be fucked if he lets this go the way of 2014 again.

He takes a wobbly step forward and just - crumples to his knees. Fuck, the room’s all spinny. He’s not going to - he needs to get to that fridge -

“Jonny?” 

Jonny knows who it is right away - he can tell from the scent, the sound of the heartbeat, even if Patrick hadn’t said anything. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop the spinning, trying not to think of the sound of Patrick’s heart beating strong and steady, pumping blood through his body. “Hey,” he says feebly.

“Shit - fuck, Jonny, are you okay?” 

There’s a thud as Patrick drops to his knees next to Jonny and the next thing he knows is Patrick cupping his face in his hands; he cracks one eye open to see Patrick staring at him anxiously, He’s biting on his bottom lip as he so often does when he’s nervous - but it’s like Jonny’s entire field of vision narrows in on that, at the sight of Patrick’s teeth sinking into the warm, alive pinkness of his lip, leaving little white indentations. It makes him think of warmth, and blood, and -   _blood_.

“Holy fuck, you’re white as a sheet,” Patrick says, alarm written all over his face. “Have you - oh god, you need to drink, don’t you? You need to drink.” He straightens up, still holding on to Jonny, and looks around the room frantically.

“Fridge,” Jonny manages to croak out.

Patrick springs to his feet and practically runs over to the fridge; he throws the door open with such force Jonny thinks he hears a crack, and then finds himself hoping Patrick didn’t break the fridge because all the blood bags in there would spoil, and wouldn’t that be such a waste.

“Which one?” Patrick’s saying, running a hand distractedly through his curls. “Oh god - you like A+, don’t you? There’s - yeah, there's lots of that here - “

Jonny wants to laugh despite himself. At this point he’ll take fucking B- if he has to; trust Patrick to want to give him what he likes best.

Patrick comes back with his arms full of at least six bags of blood. It makes Jonny’s eyes cross just to look at them, and without really thinking about it his fangs drop, sliding smooth and sharp down over his lower lip. Fuck. He’s really fucking thirsty.

Patrick drops the bags in front of him and picks one up, tearing the attached straw off and jabbing it into the bag. “Shit, we didn’t warm it up. Can you - do you want me to warm this?”

“Fuck no,” Jonny says. They don’t have time for that shit. He needs to drink  _now_ , before they have to go back out for OT.

“Yeah, okay,” Pat says, and gives him the bag.

The first drink going down is freezing cold; but Jonny drinks without stopping, barely even taking a breath, until the bag is drained. He reaches out blindly and Patrick puts another bag in his hand.

“Slow, Jonny,” he says quietly, and lets his fingers linger on Jonny’s hand when he passes the bag over.

It takes three bags before Jonny even feels remotely human (heh, as if he’s even human), but when he finally tosses the bag aside and looks up at Patrick, Pat’s still kneeling in front of him, chewing at his lip, looking worried. Jonny rubs a fist over his mouth; it comes away red, and he licks at the residual blood on it hungrily.

“Better?” Patrick asks, his blue eyes fixed on Jonny’s mouth. Jonny frowns, runs his tongue around his lips and fangs in case there are drops of blood he'd missed, and for some reason Patrick’s heartbeat speeds right up. When he finally glances up from Jonny’s mouth, his pupils are dilated.

Okay, that’s interesting. Or maybe not so, considering the way they’ve both danced around each other for years.

Jonny knows - has always known - that the fact that he’s a vampire seems to hold some kind of strange fascination for Patrick. The other guys tend to avoid him when he’s thirsty enough to be in a bad mood, or when his fangs are out - Patrick never does. As rookies, Patrick was the only one who’d room with him, and that rooming arrangement worked out well enough that they’ve stuck with it long term. And even now, when there are more vampires in the league, and there are a couple other vampires besides Jonny on the Blackhawks - it seems Patrick’s fascination with him has never really died down.

Or at least, Jonny’s never seen Patrick’s pupils dilate when Forsling or Schmaltz are drinking around him.

And he knows - has always known, too - that Patrick’s weirdly attracted to  _him_  specifically; and it’s not as if that attraction isn’t reciprocated, Sharpy’s stupid comments about their “sexual tension” or whatever make it clear enough. He’s just - never done anything about it. Hasn’t dared to. Fuck, he’s a  _vampire_ , and no matter how captivated Patrick is by him, the fact remains that Patrick’s still a fragile, breakable human, with thin skin and delicate bones and a perfect tracery of beautiful blue-purple veins across his wrists and the pulse of his neck and -

Shit, shit, he really needs to stop this train of thought.

Patrick clears his throat. “Is that - was that enough?” he asks, casting his eyes down at the emptied bags scattered around them.

Jonny shrugs. Bagged blood’s never enough, never fills him or satisfies him the way fresh blood does, but it works. “It’ll have to be,” he says. “I feel better already anyway. Pat - thanks.”

Patrick’s eyes are still downcast, and not for the first time, Jonny notices the spidery shadows they cast on Patrick’s pale cheeks. He's just so fucking pretty.

“How long’s it been since you had fresh blood?” Patrick blurts out.

“I - what?” Jonny says, thrown by the question.

“How long?” Patrick says insistently, looking up, staring directly into his eyes. “And don’t lie to me - I know about vampires, I know you guys can’t survive forever on bagged blood, you need fresh sometimes - “

“I - I don’t know,” Jonny says helplessly. “A year? I guess? I don’t remember.”

“Jesus,” Patrick says, exhaling. “Jonny, you are a fucking idiot.”

“I don’t need it that often,” Jonny says. And it’s true, he really doesn’t, and if he gets used to the taste and feel of fresh blood, he’s going to - he already can't stop thinking of Patrick every time he finds someone willing to be fucked and drunk from. He needs to stop associating Patrick with blood and sex, because he can’t see this going well for either of them.

Patrick glares at him, and then to Jonny’s shock he yanks his jersey over his head until he’s in just his pads and underarmour. He rolls up the sleeve of his underarmour and practically shoves his arm in Jonny’s face.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jonny says.

“Drink,” Patrick snaps, and then he - oh fuck, _fuck_ \- presses his wrist against one of Jonny’s fangs.

This close, Jonny can smell the blood pumping under the skin; can smell the heady scent of it, of Patrick’s warmth and vitality, can feel the steady beats of his pulse. He turns his head away. “No - Patrick,  _no_.”

Patrick pushes his wrist forward; Jonny tips himself back and Patrick inches forward, following him, until he’s straddled in Jonny’s lap. It’s all - it’s too fucking much, Patrick in his lap, his wrist against his mouth. “You just need a little. I know it. Jonny, fuck, we need you out there.  _I need you_. I need you to do it with me. I can’t do it all alone.”

“Pat, I - do you even know what you’re saying?” Jonny whispers. The scent of Patrick’s blood is thick in his nose, and he’s just emptied three blood bags but he’s suddenly ravenous again. His stomach cramps, as if it’s rejecting the cold, stale bagged blood in favour of knowing there’s a fresh blood supply so close.

“I know, okay, I’m not stupid. Just do it, Jonny.”

“I can’t,” Jonny says, even as his hands come up of their own volition to grasp Patrick’s arm. He noses along the inside of Patrick’s wrist involuntarily, and Patrick’s scent hits him like a brick. “I can’t. Patrick - I can’t hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me,” Patrick says, and he sounds so confident, so certain; even his heartbeat is steady, no uptick in its pace, no lie or fear at all. Jonny wonders how he can be so sure - how he can offer himself so easily and freely up to Jonny like this without a single iota of dread.

“How’d you know?” Jonny whispers.

“Because I trust you,” Patrick says. “I know you won’t hurt me. Fucking drink now or we won’t have time.”

“Oh my god,” Jonny says. His fangs slide over the soft sweaty skin of Patrick’s wrist; and there’s still no change in Patrick’s heartbeat, none at all. He’s not scared of Jonny.

“I - okay,” Jonny says. “I’ll - Patrick, breathe deep.”

Patrick inhales sharply when Jonny finally sinks his fangs in; his body jolts in Jonny’s lap and Jonny twines an arm around his waist to hold him steady. The first spurt of Patrick’s blood on his tongue is like - he can’t even begin to describe it. It’s thick and rich and hot, dark and sweet, and of course Patrick's an A+. Of _course_ he's Jonny's favourite blood type, like the universe is determined to suck Jonny into this bloodlust for Patrick that he's managed to hold back for years. He sucks once, greedily, pulling the blood into his mouth like sweet syrupy nectar, and Patrick whimpers. But there’s no sign of pain in his body or his heartbeat, and Jonny dares to take one more swallow, two more, another one, trying to keep himself under control, ignoring the overwhelming urge to push Patrick down, get his fangs into his neck, maybe his fingers inside Patrick’s ass at the same time, and just  _take_. Take what Patrick’s so willing to give.

“Ohhh - fuck, Jonny,” Patrick says, pushing himself closer to Jonny, and it’s only then that Jonny registers that Patrick’s hard. He’s hard - they both are - and Patrick’s grinding his dick against Jonny’s stomach.

Jonny tears his mouth away from Patrick’s wrist. Five swallows - that’s all he dares to take without weakening Patrick. Already the blood’s doing its work, suffusing him with warmth from his throat to his belly, rushing through his limbs; Jonny knows that if he looks at himself in a mirror right now, he’d be flushed pink. And Patrick - he looks  _amazing_. He’s pink from arousal, lips red and wet, eyes large and dark and hazy as he stares at Jonny.

There’s a corner of Jonny’s mind that’s just grateful he didn’t go overboard and take too much from Patrick.

“Do you feel okay?” he asks, grasping Patrick’s face in his hands. Patrick’s still warm, no sign of coldness or clamminess whatsoever.

“Do I - oh my god,” Patrick says breathlessly, starting to laugh. “I feel okay. So okay.”

He runs his thumb over Jonny’s mouth, down over a fang, and Jonny jumps a little - there’s never been a human who’d willingly touch his fangs, even if they were willing to be fed on while Jonny fucked them; and here’s Patrick boldly reaching out, rubbing his thumb tip over one, and then he pushes it between Jonny’s lips so Jonny can suck the traces of blood from it.

“Wait,” Jonny says, ”let me - “ and he takes Patrick’s arm to lick up the rivulets of blood leaking from the puncture marks on his wrist, licks over the wounds themselves until he can feel them closing up under his tongue, as Patrick shudders wordlessly against him. He’s hard as a rock still.

“Patrick,” Jonny says gently. He strokes his hand down Patrick’s spine and lets it rest right where his ass curves out. “We need to talk about this later.”

Patrick looks at him, lips parted. “Yeah,” he says breathlessly. “But we have a game to win first.”

Jonny nods in agreement; and then he leans close, rests his forehead against Patrick. “Pat - thanks. For trusting me. For - all of this.”

“I’ve always trusted you, Jonny,” Patrick says. “You just didn’t trust yourself enough, when I’ve always been here and - willing.”

“Yeah,” Jonny whispers; he tips his head, just a little, and kisses Patrick for the first time, thinking of all the times he’s wanted to do this and never dared to - and Patrick kisses right back, no fear whatsoever, his heartbeat steady in Jonny’s ears.


End file.
